“And from Newbury it is only another day’s journey to Portsmouth,” Edmund explained for Miss Crawford’s benefit.
“No prospect of overtaking her, then. Mother, could you please send a note to your sister Price, asking her to assure us of Fanny’s safe arrival?”
“I daresay she wrote to my sister Price in advance,” said Mrs. Norris, who appeared to be chiefly annoyed that she had not been consulted on the scheme, or asked to organize the trip herself, for she could not be supposed to object to Fanny’s departure from the household. “Such secrecy and double dealings, I never expected to see! Baddeley,” she enquired of the butler, who had entered to remove the tea things, “did Miss Price give you any letters to post in the last fortnight?”
Baddeley paused, “I believe, ma’am, she sent a letter to her brother, the midshipman. Aboard the Antwerp, ma’am.”
“She writes him every month, I think,” said Edmund. “but she has no other correspondents that I know of, outside of her family.”
“If you would be so kind as to give me the direction to her parent’s home in Portsmouth, Mr. Bertram,” Mary interposed. “Would it be officious of me to write to her directly—as a friend?”
“You are too good,” Tom answered, “but I expect Maria or Julia to...”
“Oh, but they have cares of their own, and—and, am I not soon to become your sister, that is—once Maria and Henry are united?”
Tom said nothing, but Edmund’s countenance, as he thanked Mary for her kindness, was all she could desire, and she accepted his offer to accompany her back home to the Parsonage, where, despite the chill of the evening, they chose to walk, so that they might have a longer tête-à-tête.
“You do not appear to be angry with me, Mr. Bertram.”
“Angry? No. Did you suspect me of being so?”
“Thank you. I wanted to assure myself. I know that my brother has behaved selfishly, imprudently. I cannot expect you to approve of his behaviour, whatever the outcome. And I feared… I feared….”
For answer, Edmund drew her arm within his.
“While my brother certainly behaved rashly, in the end it will all be for the best. As for poor Mr. Rushworth, he is better off as he is. You were kind enough to undeceive him, but the truth would at last have dawned upon him sooner or later.”
“While I cannot defend either of our relatives, I think the greater error was on my sister’s side. When Maria discovered her feelings for Rushworth were not what they ought to be, she should have ended the engagement.”
“You have heard of the expression, ‘a bird in the hand,’ Mr. Bertram? Many women would not relinquish the first plump little bird until she was assured of the second.”
“Night is falling and I cannot clearly see your face, Miss Crawford. I don’t know if you are jesting or are in earnest. If you sincerely believe this, then your opinion of womankind is a degraded one.”
“You are too severe upon our sex, Mr. Bertram. Kindly recollect, if you please, that we women generally are not as bold as my character in our play; custom deprives us of the freedom to make declarations of love. The alliance with Mr. Rushworth was not a thing to be thrown away lightly unless she was certain she had secured my brother’s affection.”
“By ‘alliance’ you are referring, I suppose, to his property and his fortune?”
“Any sober-minded woman would weigh a proposal from such a man very carefully before refusing. You shake your head. But we have debated this point before, have we not? Please,” she leaned lightly on his arm, “let us not quarrel about the prudence of marrying well. We have had enough discord for one day! I flatter myself I was of some use today in soothing both your sisters. To succeed with them, only to quarrel with you, makes me doubt my abilities as a conciliator. But pray believe me when I say that I respect your opinions. You cause me to think and reflect, as perhaps no other person has… you have a solidity, a constancy, so different from the sort of man one meets in London.”
“If I could lay myself out for a compliment as artfully as some ladies do, I would prefer to hear some encomiums on my wit.”
Mary laughed, and Edmund had never heard a sound half so enchanting. “Your wit, Mr. Bertram, could be used to start a fire, so dry as it is.”
And Edmund was almost ready to forget that not half a minute ago he had been distressed to hear Mary speak of her brother’s imprudence, merely imprudence, and not his honour. He thought to himself that he would have to relate some part of the conversation to Fanny, as was his habit—then started slightly when he remembered that Fanny was gone.
“Yes, what is it, Mr. Bertram?”
“I own myself surprised that Fanny would go away without confiding in me...”
“Yes! It shows such a want of consideration and respect for you, as must astonish anyone who knows of your kindness to her. So patient with her timidity! So indulgent of her dependence on you! Can you speculate on her reasons for leaving so abruptly?”
“I think I can. She has been living among us since she was a child, and yet has not always felt herself to be one of us, and you were recently a witness to an instance of why this is so. I think it has, at times, been difficult to bear—even more difficult than I supposed.”
“She may have resented being left at home to protect your good mother from ennui while your sisters were attending balls and dinner parties?”
“I
